The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 8 Impaled by the Minotaur
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This Is Not CNN free porn video
This Is Not CNN
By Jacquie Windsor
MAY 2003
"Who loves you? And who do you love?"
--Richard Dawson as Damon Killian; 'The Running Man'
The Winter Hill Community Center was ablaze with lights,
activity, and understated security measures.
"Welcome one and all, young and old, first and last, to the
2003 Buffalo Jump District Recognition Awards Ceremony and
Festival." Mack Turner, the master of ceremonies, paced on
the stage like a hungry lion, bellowing savagely into the
microphone so everyone could hear. It was, after all, the
best attended tradition in the whole area and invited
visitors from as far away as Wyoming.
"We are proud this year to have among our illustrious
sponsors the fine people from Pox News, who you'll see at
the four towers surrounding the arena. They're broadcasting
us live, here in Winter Hill, and around the world. Join me
in welcoming them with a warm round of applause." Everyone
clapped and hooted, hoping for a chance to be glimpsed on
satellite TV transmissions in faraway Pakistan, East
Liberia, or Toxic City, Arizona. The first awards were
doled out before Corbett Stirnweiss had even gotten out of
his shower. Corbett was one of five certified media
consultants in the small town of Winter Hill. The
municipality was proudly proclaimed as the Media
Consultancy Capital of North America on the basis of the
unsustainable ratio of media consultants to general
population. That was key to getting Pox News to handle the
days' events.
By the time he got to the arena, the show was almost half
over. Still, among all five media consultants, Corbett
realized he was still the first one to enter the stadium.
Upstaged again. He followed an usher to the array of
nearly empty luxury boxes installed just below the
GigaVision screen. The screen had been proposed and backed
by one of the other media consultants in town, an
overwhelming backdrop of almost a billion LCD tiles
projecting expanded images of the festivities, so
brilliantly that passenger jets overhead could see
everything when there was no cloud cover.
The show continued.
"The award for Most Papal Eminence goes to." Turner fumbled
with the envelope, pulled out the card it contained, and
announced with authority: "Pope John Paul II. Now I hear
His Holiness is not in the audience with us tonight, but I
also heard that Cardinal Preston is here, from the
Fraternity Order. Cardinal?"
An old man stumbled and careened forward, delicately
balancing on the shoulders of a pair of burly attendants,
illuminated by klieg lights and accompanied by the sounds
of a countrified version of 'Kum-bay-ah'.
"Hey kids, ain't he a beauty?" declared the MC, distorting
his voice until he sounded like Bugs Bunny imitating Bart
Simpson.
"Yo, Corb, they gotta get younger dudes up there if they
wanna keep the sponsorship bucks rolling in."
Corbett whirled around to see his boss, a young-twenties
fellow who dressed down for just about every occasion. He
wore his moustache untrimmed. His head was surmounted by a
ubiquitous black Stetson, even with the shiny green velvet
suit he'd bought for the awards show. Corbett called him
Yosemite, even to his face. It was a handy working
relationship they had; the relaxed business atmosphere
belied the workaholic tendencies of both men.
The Cardinal took four minutes to mount the stage, time not
wasted by the network as expensive commercials filled the
dead air time. The religious leader wound his way through
the Kippernugger Dancers, a regional dance troupe that
dabbled in magic and trapeze acts, although the latter had
been severely curtailed after the Calamity In Swift Current
which cost its membership four of its most limber
performers.
"If I may be serious amid such...festivity." began the
Cardinal, coughing briefly before launching an acceptance
speech, "As you know, His Holiness is presently besieged at
the Curia by the Mormon Tabernacle Militia and won't be
able to accept this wonderful award in person."
"Well, this might be your lucky day then, Cardinal
Preston," Tucker cut in.
"Everyone's got a chance to get that prize they've always
wanted, thanks to the good people at..." He glanced at a cue
card. "At General Dynastics and H.A.L."
The Cardinal straightened up feebly in response to the
host's interruption. The Pope could really use something
spectacular.
"And what is the finest prize available? Let's listen to
our friend Vance Kastor up in the booth."
Kastor was a prize in himself. Yosemite's consulting firm
had successfully had the former radio sportscaster's vocal
chords replaced with DekaPhonic Rust-Free Boom-Chords,
allowing him to announce hockey games (or awards shows)
without the hassle of microphone or amplifier. He could
project perfect tones at 140 decibels up to 40 metres
distant. The only downside was hearing loss; Vance Kastor
was legally deaf, and his eyes were going too.
"R-r-r-right you are, Mack Turner...the Cardinal could win
this!" A curtain backstage parted, with its contents
revealed on the GigaVision.
"It's the Presbyterian Highland Guard. These kilted
maniacs supply close combat support for the Dalai Lama, the
Apostate of St. Helena and six different bishoprics in
South America. For the stoic, smooth price of four hundred
thousand Scottish pounds, Cardinal Preston, this daunting
Protestant force will clear all 352 acres of the Holy See
and kick the Swiss Guard's asses to boot! So, Cardinal
Preston, will...you...write...the...check?"
The GigaVision caught the sour taste on the Cardinal's
tongue, his face screwed into the perfect likeness of a
spaniel's after a rough encounter with a Rottweiler. His
hands trembled as the word escaped his lips: "Never."
"Now, Cardinal, let's forget things past," beamed the MC.
"Think of the quaking figure of that old Polish coot as the
Mormons lob grenades into his bedroom. Wouldn't he want
you to make this tiny concession to the Protestant
movement? I mean, look at those goddamn Kalashnikovs.
They're mean, oh mean."
"Never." The old Cardinal bit his gnarled lip.
"Well, Cardy-baby, you know that nobody escapes the
festival without some kind of prize. Vance? Tell him what
the free option is for this phase."
"He's lookin' right fine," nodded Yosemite, directing
Corbett's attention to the master of ceremonies. "Cost
twenty grand minimum for any rodeo we'd try to put on these
days." Corbett agreed.
"Your award prize is this," Vance cried from his off-camera
post. A curtain drew back, displaying four solemn men. The
Cardinal looked perplexed, as did the audience taking in
the sight on the GigaVision.
"That's right, Vance," Tucker butted in. "It's the Quaker
Quartet! Four sturdy yeoman from the Pennsylvania outback.
They read. They sow oats. They follow nineteenth century
radical English philosophy."
"But. But." The Cardinal appeared on the verge of tears.
"They're pacifists!"
"Whoa, that's right, Cardinal Loser. You got four
conscientious objectors. But, so you don't go away
completely empty-handed, we're going to throw in four
LaserInt SGS Satellite Guidance Pocket Pens, one for each
of your Society Of Friends conscripts. These handy items
can sign Papal Bulls one day and point at a soon-to-be-
vaporized Mormon the next. They're portable. They're
reliable. And they come with an extended warranty against
leaking and targeting the wrong leader of the true
religion! Cardinal Pederast, you haven't just got yourself
some Quakers. You've got yourself the finest writing
instruments developed by the military-industrial complex!"
"I think I'm converting to the Cult of Anubis," muttered
the Cardinal before the attendants whisked him from the
stage.
"Aren't we all?" joked the MC. "Aren't we all?"
The next segment was ready to begin in exactly the time it
took to show four 30-second spots. Three of the four had
Yosemite's creative hand in them; the fourth was one of
those annoying anti-drunk-driving ads. Mothers Against
Drunk Driving was so well-financed that it had its own
political and military wings, along with its publicity-
hungry core. Recently, the hospitals in Wainwright and
Lloydminster had caved into MADD's political strong arm by
compelling its doctors to refuse treatment to drunk
drivers, turning them over instead to local MADD
paramilitary units for interrogation and education. Most
of the errant drivers would not survive the first night.
"Please turn your attention to the Arena Of Dismay, ringed
in SuperSharp Alloy Fence Wire, developed in secret by our
friends at the 3N Corporation out of Council Bluffs, Iowa,"
Tucker exhaled. "Yes, SuperSharp is guaranteed against
atomic blasts as near as 600 metres away, can carve an
illegal alien to shreds just by thinking about it, used
by penitentiaries and day-care centers the world over."
The audience cheered as the MC continued.
"Today we're proud to announce the world premiere of Battle
Friends, the ultimate contest of machine against machine,
produced by the fine folks at Infinity Cubed Media
Consultants, from right here in this very district."
Corbett's ears perked up. Yosemite must have worked on the
project in isolation from the rest of the gossipy crowd at
I-3. The production was a complete surprise to him.
Yosemite playfully kicked his employee in the kidney as the
show went on.
"We present, in this corner," Tucker announced, as a
robotic monster emerged from behind a thick curtain, "the
Vindictinator, a robust metric tonne of steel, cogs,
electronics and whirling blades." The robot was nearly
human, with lamps for eyes, claw-tipped limbs and
rotating quickly on a continuous track that supported its
rectangular torso. The audience gasped appropriately as red
and blue spot lighting swirled around the mechanical
menace.
"Looks like a rip-off of 'Destructo-Bots' to me," Corbett
told his boss with no paucity of contempt in his voice.
"Kick that in your own kidney."
"Just you wait and see," laughed his boss, lighting a cigar
in spite of the dozens of plastic no smoking signs on every
door and wall inside the luxury box.
"And in this corner, world-famous physicist and cyborg,
Stephen Hawking."
Emerging seated on an armor-plated wheelchair, fitted with
mechanical claws and other tools of violence, the familiar
lyrical voice simulator informed everyone they were in the
presence of a scientific genius. "Thiss is be-neath mme;
affter all, I can-n play Chopin-n on the pian-no,
the pian-no in my minnd."
The MC laughed deeply as the human competitor tried to
rationalize his presence in the arena. The crowd itself
was in a frenzy, waving hand-made banners prepared ahead of
time by the festival promoters. "Blind The Scientist!"
"Smash The Robot With Your Genius!" "My Other Wheelchair Is
A Dodge!"
The fight began with The Vindictinator rolling straight at
the bespectacled physicist with its limbs whirling, looking
for the knockout blow in the early going. The theoretician
moved abruptly to one side, letting the machine past to the
barrier at the edge of the fighting zone.
"Don't waste your time on this shit," winked Corbett to his
boss. "Take a look at this proposal, here."
He tossed a thin black binder onto the table next to
Yosemite. The mustachioed consulting mogul divided his
attention between the duel and the plain-looking binder.
He thumbed through the pages, lifting one eyebrow and
nodding from time to time.
"Damn fine," he muttered. "A new program called 'Take A
Hostage For Charity'? Not too bad, Corby, my boy. Maybe
we ought to try a test run? How's it work exactly?"
"Simple. You get the sponsor to match the demands of a
volunteer for whatever you want. Diabetes. Cancer. Missing
kids. Doesn't matter. You give the volunteer whatever
weapons he or she needs and send them out into the public.
They can pick a public place, a bus, some kind of random
occasion, hitchhiking even. They go ahead and take their
hostage and see if the demands are met. If they are, then
you're closer to curing Mad Cow Disease or saving the old
growth forests, or whatever, and if the demands aren't met,
then, well, you know how it could go."
"A test run makes sense, then," Yosemite observed.
"Don't have to. This show, or a very similar one, has been
running for almost eight months in Lithuania. Three
detonations already, a police gun battle, six or so
volunteers lost and, uh, even a few dozen innocent
bystanders. But more than a million Euros raised for
charity. That just rakes in the ratings."
The televised combat in the distance continued. "Mmy livver
seems to be damag'd," complained the renowned physicist as
his fully mechanized opponent struck home with deadly
accuracy and the urgency of a sociopath. The crowd doubled
its cheering approval.
"It's a winner," acknowledged Yosemite to his able
employee.
"I know, of course it is," Corbett nodded.
"Not this, that," pointed the entrepreneur.
Stephen Hawking's famous brains had been impaled on the
Vindictinator's claws. Hoses and brooms, wielded by the
arena crew, cleaned up the fight scene while the spotlights
crawled back to the podium where Tucker announced the next
in the series of awards to be handed out.
Corbett Stirnweiss had not waited for the substance of the
next speech; the free liquor that inevitably came with
these shows had forced him to use the washroom. He came
back in time to hear only that his own new program, "Hit
and Run Gravel Truck", an Infinity Cubed Production, had
won the award for Best New Television Concept. If they
liked that one, they'd love the newer idea he'd just then
shown to his boss.
Hit and Run Gravel Truck was a reality show. The GigaVision
displayed some of the more memorable scenes as Corbett
walked towards the stage to accept the award. Yosemite was
nowhere in sight.
"Turd," thought the media consultant, flashing teeth for
the television cameras following him from the luxury box to
the stage. The GigaVision split between the live action and
taped scenes. It was the consultant's own idea to hire the
actor who used to play "Potsy" on the old sitcom "Happy
Days". Older and broker, the drug-addled entertainer drove
a loaded gravel truck through urban areas. He was timed as
he went. The gamble was a $50,000 paycheque for each gravel
load successfully deposited, in time, on the lawn in front
of a random contestant's home. If Potsy failed, then the
$50,000 went to the homeowner. The real genius of the show
was picking a route that wound through rush hour traffic,
school zones as classes finished for the day, and even
crowded Wal-Mart parking lots. The carnage was spectacular
and Potsy discovered for himself a whole new generation of
fans, much as "Happy Days" co-star Ron Howard did later
with his feel-good movies.
Corbett Stirnweiss waved apathetically at the adoring crowd
before asking Tucker what the prize was.
"Well I guess its back up to Vance, in the booth," roared
the MC. Corbett followed the wide sweep of the host's arm
and saw Vance, vaguely, on the catwalk overhead. Vance
Kastor? With a Stetson on his head? But the voice was
unmistakably that of the technologically-enhanced Boom
Chords: "We-heh-heh-hell, folks, you can take the chintzy
trophy manufactured by Global Ersatz, Incorporated, a
fifteen-dollar trinket made of depleted uranium and
recycled pottery shards, or..."
Corbett peered up through the haze still occluding the
arena, the residue caused by the high-speed grinder that
had chewed up much of the physicist's unique armor-plated
chair, unsure whether it was really Vance Kastor up in the
booth. With that hat on, it sure looked a lot like
Yosemite.
"...you can play SwapMate 3000 for a chance at a million
dollars in U.S. funds!"
"I'll take the million dollars," shrugged the winning
consultant. "No big deal, right?"
"Exactly," crowed Tucker into the microphone. Lowering his
voice to convey sincerity and suspense, he continued.
"Just one condition and one alone, Corbett, which is, just
step into this chamber, the chamber right over
here, yes, right in the door, perfectly fine, yes...and...
close and lock the door...everyone?...thank you to my lovely
assistant Pasquale...locked?...yes...and now, back up to
you, Vance, for the question...for...One...Million...
Dollars."
"What," Kastor began, "is my middle name?"
Although locked in the chamber, Corbett responded quickly:
"It's." What? Wait a second. I knew his name about a half a
second ago. It's something with an `L'. No. A `B'. No. Not
that either. What? What was he asking me?
Corbett Stirnweiss ceased to exist in any sentient way.
Things began to seem so much bigger, shinier, cuter,
through the translucence of the SwapMate 3000 canopy.
Nakeder. Bustier. Prettier.
The MC's assistant, Pasquale, happily volunteered to wrap a
two-sizes-too-small tank top over Corbett's enormously
expanded bustline, which had ripped open his dress shirt as
the contest went to Vance Igor Kastor. The SwapMate 3000
forced the consultant's entire skeleton to contort into
a petite shadow of its former self, transferring an entire
biophysical genome in nearly the blink of an eye. The whole
body was affected. Its spirit, soul, reproductive system,
blood, DNA, fingerprints, everything. The five-foot-three
waif, with the generous butt, wild chocolate hair,
enormous boobs, fat pink lips and wide blue eyes, bore no
resemblance whatsoever to the media consultant who'd just
won a prize for resurrecting the career of another two-bit
actor. She was sex incarnate, happily adjusting the
chartreuse thong and letting Pasquale strap the stilettos
to her feet.
"Do you believe it, ladies and gentlemen?" grinned the
Cheshire Cat host. "This is the new Patsy Pow-Pow! Ain't
she delish?"
The crowd went into delirium as Patsy bounced around the
stage like a half-drugged stripper. The men, especially,
couldn't take their eyes off her unnaturally large and firm
chest. Her boobs threatened to pop right out of the flimsy
tank top.
"Well, Patsy," the MC nudged the giggling stage-shy bimbo,
"and what do you plan to do with your new prize?"
"I'm gonna party like crazy and become a mule for some
crazy old drug dealer!" Patsy threw her arms into the air,
tossed her hair around, and bounced off the stage under the
approving eyes of all the men in the audience, live and on
TV across the world.
"That one's an instant boner, I'd say," enunciated the
show's host. "Now..."
Vance agreed, setting the borrowed Stetson on the
unconscious body of I-3's executive leader who lay prone on
the catwalk. He could trust Pasquale to take Yosemite back
to his home once the show was over. The former radio
announcer with the altered voice now had his revenge
against the Frankenstein's who'd robbed him of the capacity
to whisper sweet nothings.
For two weeks after the show, Yosemite remained bewildered
that his sharpest consultant would vanish so dramatically.
Calls to the arena's security office produced nothing. The
entrepreneur sulked at home, no longer wishing to put in
long hours while Corbett's fate remained a mystery, and he
languidly switched on the television. It was the BNN All-
Day News:
"With me tonight is Director of Home Security, Professor
Tom Ridge," began the attractive anchorperson. "Now, Tom,
you know you've developed a five-color system to alert our
fellow Americans about their terror levels, right?"
"Why, of course, Rudi, I know we've developed that system.
It will result in increased vigilance and a road map to
Mid-East peace." The director adjusted his tie and smiled
while frowning.
"Well, Professor Ridge, if you are indeed a professor of
anything, you would realize that you've made a terror-able
mistake, if I can be that bold and use a word game to help
lighten this moment of orange-level awkwardness for you."
The BNN anchor adjusted her dress, unsure whether the
bureaucrat could see her slip, or whether he was simply
undressing her during the interview.
"Mistake?"
"Yes, if the sleeper cells actually exist, you see, they
haven't even got a reason to use cell phones or traceable
communications to plan their next attack. All they have to
do is use "code word green" as their start date. So, you
see, they can time their attacks according to the publicly
available terror alerts instead of being activated by
specific orders. That wasn't too smart of you."
Director Ridge was shocked. "You. I. I mean. Jesus Christ,
you're probably absolutely right, Ms. Bakhtiar. I guess I'm
not as clever as I thought I was."
"Worse than that, professor," answered the vaguely ethnic
broadcast maven, "you keep calling me 'Rudi'. You ought to
know from the piercing quality of my interviewing that I am
really Wolf Blitzer. Rudi and I swapped bodies last week."
Yosemite drew heavily on a beer and switched to a different
channel.
"CRXX was at the scene, today, as former Secretary of
Defense Donald Rumsfeld was sworn in as the new director of
the Federal Bureau of Secular Theology. In keeping with the
spirit of the separation of church and state, Rumsfeld will
report directly to the president on all matters regarding
the proliferation of alien religious practices in every
state except Idaho. Boise legislators have been isolated on
a compound near the Snake River for the past two months.
We take you now to the briefing room at the nation's
capital."
The media Consultancy mogul paused with his finger poised
on the remote control. Soon the smiling face of the jocular
old man appeared:
"Golly, you know," drawled the bureaucrat in his familiar
style, "there's nothing wrong with Hinduism as we see it,
but, you gotta wonder how anyone can take a god seriously
who has fifty arms and eats Baptists for brunch." A cough
and a wink at the admiring press agents in the room.
"Could you just imagine trying to crucify that guy? I don't
think there were that many nails in the whole Roman
Empire!" Loud laughter. Click. The news was faintly amusing
yet fully expected. Yosemite was damned, though, if he'd
ever share any of his hard earnings with employees
demanding paid prayer breakfasts. He'd already refused to
allow a day-care center to be built; a chapel would
seriously wreck the profitability of his business.
"Welcome to Pox News," announced the channel that had
successfully bid on the recent awards show. "Tonight's top
story: A daring gun battle on the Canadian border. Plus:
New leads in the story on a missing media consultant. And:
Analysis by our skilled panel of professional iconoclasts."
Yosemite looked at the icon on the lower left of the
screen. The terror alert level had descended to "Blue:
Watch Out" some time during the last twenty-four hours and
he hadn't even noticed.
"First up," crowed the television anchor, his hair coifed
into a perfect Jennings, "we show you rare videotape of
crazed drug dealer, Kirby Jonathon, pulling up to a North
Dakota border stop and killing two of our nation's finest
security guards."
Yosemite squinted at the videotape running along with the
banal commentary. It showed a fetching woman, scantily
clad, apparently occupying the full attentions of the
guards while, in the fuzzy background, the driver pulled
out large handgun and shot both men at fatally close
range.
"Memorial services for both national heroes will be held at
the Washington DC Garden Of Earthly Delights, the new
resting place for every man, woman and child who give their
lives in the defense of the greatest nation to ever grace
the earth. A cross-country alert has been issued for the
killer. The girl with the big boobs is also wanted by the
FBI, for questioning, and by the Pox Network, to host a new
program this fall: `Girls With Big Boobs'."
Yosemite blinked. Something in his long-term memory clicked
like a remote control button. `Where have I seen that
chick before?'
"Thank you, Shane, I think the woman's name is Patsy
Something," oozed the co-anchor, a sharp dressed young lady
with whooshing hair and big white teeth. "Meanwhile the
hunt continues for missing media consultant Corbett
Stirnweiss. Stirnweiss was last seen at an awards show
broadcast live and around the globe by this network. I
repeat, by this network. The clever consultant was last
seen entering a special device that, apparently, has the
ability to turn men into enormously endowed women. What do
you think of that, Shane?"
She looked over with that faux sincerity commonly employed
by newspeople to make viewers believe that they liked one
another.
"Well, Dippy," grinned the male anchor, bearing the
affected demeanor of a drunk puppy, "I know I could
certainly do something with a chest like that."
"So could I!" squealed Dippy. "So could I! Now, on a more
serious note, it's over to our panel for analysis."
Yosemite shook his head in disbelief just a moment before
throwing the remote control straight through the plasma
screen.
"Analysis!? Analysis?! Fucking buffoons. Can't you fucking
see? They're the same fucking person. Patsy Pow-Pow is
Corbett Stirnweiss."
One moment later, the Terror Alert level went to Green:
None. Ten minutes later afterwards, Home Security Director
resigned in disgrace amid the wreckage of another monument.
Avriella
- 16.05.2021
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